


Down-to-Earth - Dinner

by eyeslikerain



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: AU second year in Hampden, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Living Together, M/M, being honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11845659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikerain/pseuds/eyeslikerain
Summary: “Mom, I need to tell you something. Sophie’s not my girlfriend. I am sorry.”





	Down-to-Earth - Dinner

On a Tuesday in November, I found an unexpected postcard from my mother in my postbox. She wrote so rarely I feared there might be bad news. There were, but not in the usual sense: she informed me she wanted to visit me and see my new apartment and meet my roommate on her way back from a funeral in New Jersey. She would arrive Friday afternoon and had booked into the Coachlight Inn.  
I let out my breath. I hadn’t seen my mother for more than one year. I had no idea how to explain Francis’s presence in my life. How to explain my whole life which had developed in a direction that had not been foreseeable all the years before. I felt like a butterfly needing to explain why he looked so different from the state he was in before. Worst of all: I felt ashamed of my mother, her flat, well worn shoes, her polyester pants suits. I couldn’t imagine introducing her to Francis.  
But I would have to, and so I thought it best to come right to the point when I came home this evening.

Francis sat at his desk, two large, illustrated tomes in front of him, a smaller, but equally thick book on his lap and a cigarette dangling between his fingers.  
“My mother is coming. On Friday. She wants to meet my roommate.”  
“Well, that’s nice. I look forward to meeting her finally.”  
“Francis! She will know!”  
“What?”  
“About this roommate fib. She will know instantly.”  
“But that’s what we are, aren’t we?”, he remarked innocently.  
“You gave me a blowjob only this morning, right there at the kitchen table, before I even finished my first cup of tea.”  
“Happens to the best of us”, he shrugged, flicking his cigarette serenely into the ashtray.  
I was silent.  
“You don’t have to tell her that, do you?” He raised his head. “Come on, darling. Don’t make it more complicated than it is. I will cook a nice dinner, and we can take her around on Saturday if she likes to. Show her Hampden, maybe have breakfast somewhere nice? Drive around a little?”  
“You would do that?”  
“Well, of course. You did the same for my mother, didn’t you?”  
I sat down and exhaled. But I wasn’t done yet. Francis seemed to sense it and asked:  
“Anything else?”  
“Actually, yes. I don’t know how to put it…”  
“Do you want me to disappear for the weekend?”  
“No!”, I cried, genuinely shocked. “No, of course not! Listen, Francis, this is difficult…”  
I reached for his cigarette and took a drag.  
“You see, I told you where I come from.” One day, I had told him just the truth about Plano, the gas station, my disinterested parents, my grandparents which we hadn’t seen in years, just my whole humble provenance. He seemed not to mind, stating that I was moving on rapidly and building a different life for myself and that he admired me for my steadfastness.  
“My mother is – different to yours, to put it mildly. I am afraid I am - ashamed of her in a certain way.”  
“Richard! That’s an awful thing to say. Please don’t! Thanks to her, you are here. I will forever be grateful to her for that, regardless what kind of person she is.”  
I was touched.  
“But she is dressing quite differently…”  
“Please. Do I look as if I mind?”  
“Yes, you do”, I smirked, “and I know how important it is to you. And you know yourself you can be quite arrogant.”  
“Yes. But I differentiate, don’t I? The outside is not that important. But look here,” - for him, the subject seemed closed - “this mahogany veneer - did you know they always kept a similar slice of wood for possible repairs to get the exact pattern right in special pieces? Like in the larger and really important ones? And you still can find those twin pieces today at the maker’s shops, isn’t that incredible?”  
I looked at him, affectionately and relieved. He took it much better than I had feared.  
He waited for an answer, and when I stayed silent, he added, mockingly exasperated:  
“Don’t tell me there is even more.”  
“I appreciate it awfully that you offered to cook. But – could you keep it somewhat simple? No quail? Or asparagus? And maybe no champagne? For my parents, a wedding is the only occasion for champagne.”  
He exhaled.  
“Very well then, you will get the perfect down-to-earth American dinner. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans. That okay?”  
I nodded.  
“But regarding the champagne – mothers need pink champagne. I won’t negotiate on this matter.”  
I shot him a cross look before I tried to suggest one more little detail to make my mother feel more at ease:  
“Could we have paper napkins? Just once?”  
“No!”, he wailed and got up. “Never! Darling. I am studying priceless Hepplewhite furniture here, and I have got a pretty good table myself. As long as there is breath in me, you will never see a paper napkin in here.”  
He sat down next to me on the sofa, looking morose and sulky.  
I broke into laughter. After one or two seconds, I had infected him. He pushed me on my back, rolled on top of me and pinned my arms above my head: “I will give you paper napkins…”

 

On Friday, I arrived in a hurry from class, only seconds before my mother’s train was announced at the station platform. I had taken two steps at a time and was breathless when I skidded to a stop next to Francis. He wore his long black overcoat and was smoking, seemed relaxed and glad to see me.  
“Well, there you are, dear.”  
“One more thing, please”, I gasped. “Don’t kiss her hand, don’t talk French to her. Or Latin.”  
“Worked nicely with you on our first encounter, didn’t it?”  
Few people got out and with a painful stab I saw my mother among the first of them, looking as plain and middleclass as I had feared. Her eyes lit up when she saw me. She padded closer, all insecurity and awkwardness, and threw her arms around me:  
“Dickie, look at you! You look so different! Like a nobleman! Oh, my goodness, let me hug you!”  
(Francis, having my mother’s back to him, smirked at me with raised eyebrows like mad – he hadn’t heard my nickname before. I had a certain feeling he might repeat it in a different context.) I was embarrassed by my mother’s cheap bag and touched by her affection at the same time. Our farewell had been rather cold, but I realized she must have missed me. I introduced her to Francis, who couldn’t avoid an ”enchanté” and an indicated bow when he took her hand. She squinted at me:  
“That’s the roommate? Well, how nice of you to pick me up!”

 

On our way to the motel – I couldn’t stop Francis from taking her Naugahyde bag with the frazzling handle – Francis said to me:  
“I meant to tell you, your girlfriend called, she can make it tonight.”  
“My girlfriend?”, I replied astonished.  
“Yes, your girlfriend.” He nodded vigorously. “She wants to meet your mother, remember?”  
“Mona?”, I asked sheepishly.  
“No, Sophie!”, he shot me an exasperated look over his shoulder. My mother followed our exchange with interest in the rearview-mirror and seemed slightly puzzled. “Sophie Dearbold?”, he tried to help me.  
“Oh, yes, Sophie, of course.” I still didn’t understand.  
“She even agreed to bring her famous brownies for dessert, how about that?”, he beamed. I was flabbergasted. As a dancer, Sophie abhorred sugar and fat like a vampire the sun, and I had never known her to be able to bake.  
He smiled amiably at my mother: “Sorry for that, Mrs. Papen. Your son is highly coveted on campus. His love life is rather exciting, as I can witness. But let me tell you that he is always the perfect gentleman.”  
My mother turned to me and said:  
“You never told me you have a girlfriend. That’s wonderful! I am excited to meet her!”  
I blushed. I had no idea what Francis had plotted, and we didn’t have a moment to ourselves after arriving at the apartment.

 

But apart from that, the evening went smoothly. Of course, my mother was a bit intimidated by our fine apartment, the antiques, the exuberant toast Francis recited with a glass of bubbling pink champagne in his aristocratic hands. But things got better, thanks to Francis, I have to say. I didn’t note for the first time that strangers might break up a family circle nicely, acting as a sort of catalyst to former entanglements and old, noxious patterns of behavior. Francis was excellent at conversation, when he wanted, and drew my mother into stories of her life before marriage even I had never heard. The evening passed quickly, the candles had burned down considerably and the plates were scraped tidy when we heard a knock at the door.  
“That will be Sophie. Would you like to open, da…, Dickie? Or shall I come with you?”  
“Excuse us for a second, Mom”, I said and we both made our way to the entrance. Francis motioned for me to open the door while he fumbled high on the shelves of the closet and got a square bundle, wrapped in one of our blue-and-white checkered dish clothes, from it.  
“Sophie, look at you! Pretty as always!” He kissed her smack and loudly on the cheek. “And you really made your brownies, despite your rehearsal?” With that, he handed her the covered dish. She smiled and looked at me, shrugging a little. I felt the need to react somehow, hugged her, buried my face in her rosemary-scented hair and mumbled: “I have no idea what’s going on, sorry.” She looked at me amused and I realized once more how pretty she was with her dark hair and very large eyes. She wore a swirly, short black skirt and a little dark red sweater. She looked French and somehow delicious like a chocolate-covered cherry.  
“Now take her hand!”, Francis hissed while we made our way to the dining room.

 

My mother was delighted by Sophie and I already saw her trying phrases in her mind how to mention this pretty daughter-in-law casually to her Plano friends. We had Francis’s wonderful moist brownies for dessert– Sophie declined politely – and my mother wanted to know everything about the life of a dancer. Francis and Sophie played along flawlessly, but I couldn’t help feeling more and more uncomfortable. This was betrayal. Harmless, maybe, but my mother seemed close to asking when the grandchildren would patter around. And despite seeming careless and in good spirits, I couldn’t help but imagine how much of this setting must hurt Francis, even if it had been his idea.  
When Francis asked who wanted a second brownie, generous, kind and giving as usual, my heart wrenched when I realized how far he was willing to go for my sake. When he looked at me invitingly, holding the plate with the sweet treats in my direction, I broke down.  
“Mom, I need to tell you something. Sophie’s not my girlfriend. I am sorry.”  
Three heads jerked at me. My mother looked confused:  
“What? I don’t understand. You two seem to be getting along so well…”  
“Yes, we do, and I like her, but she’s not my girlfriend.”  
Sophie shifted uncomfortably.  
“Well”, my mother added encouragingly, “maybe she will be? Some day?”  
She smiled at us.  
“Yes,” Sophie shrugged.  
“No”, I replied firmly.  
“Do you… Are you…” my mother asked after a puzzled silence, “has this Mona got something to do with it?”  
“Mona?” Sophie asked in a confused voice. “Which Mona?”  
Francis sighed and laid down his fork.  
Looking from one bewildered face to the next, I saw I needed to clear things up.  
“No, Mom. Look here…“ I stopped. Francis shot me a warning glance (“If you stop now, we can still straighten it out somehow.”), but I continued. “I don’t need a girlfriend. It’s Francis I love.” Everyone froze. I said into the shocked silence: “We are together. We are living here together, and we are a couple. And I love him with all my heart.”  
I saw Francis’s nose flush deep pink and his eyes welling up.  
My mother started to cry openly.  
The otherwise immaculate dinner seemed to take a disastrous turn. I didn’t know whom to calm down first and looked helplessly from one to the other. Finally, I couldn’t help but turn to Francis first. Reaching around Sophie, I took his hand. He looked at me, wide-eyed and totally struck, torn between tears and love. Sophie clutched her hand in front of her tiny bosom and watched me with large eyes as if I were the hero in a romantic comedy.  
My mother sobbed:  
“But Dickie, he is a man!”  
“Yes, and the most wonderful one I have ever met.”  
Francis hiccupped. I squeezed his hand.  
“Dickie, I don’t understand. You were never inclined that way.”  
Sophie had got up to get a tissue for my mother. She sat down close to her and laid a hand on her arm. I would give her an extra-hug later for her kindness.  
“I guess I was. All the time. I just didn’t have the courage…”  
Suddenly, I started to tremble and felt lightheaded.  
No one spoke a word. The candles flickered lightly.  
“Mrs. Papen, I assure you, Richard and Francis are the most devoted couple I ever saw.” Sophie said, causing a new flood of tears from my mother.  
“You knew?”, she wailed.  
“Yes. I am sorry to have deceived you tonight.” Sophie patted her arm.”Would you like to tell me why you are crying?”, she asked sympathetically.  
“As if that’s not obvious!”, my mother replied.  
“You are crying because your son is happy? Has found the one person on earth who loves him dearly?”  
Francis tipped my shoulder and motioned with his head to the door:  
“Excuse us a minute…”  
In the kitchen, he kissed me wordlessly on the mouth, long, fervent, urgent. When we stopped, he whispered:  
“I love you. I am so proud of you.”  
I had to sit down. My legs were shaking and I wasn’t sure if I hadn’t acted too much on impulse. To spoil my mother’s first evening here like that.  
“You did the right thing.” Francis massaged my shoulders. “I cannot tell you how proud I feel.”  
I turned my face up to him and he kissed me slowly and tenderly. Rarely, I had felt so shaken in my life, and I was utterly grateful to have him at my side.

 

We heard someone closing the door to the bathroom – my mother, I supposed – and started to get back to the dining room. Sophie stood relaxed at the table, shuffling plates around a little, and looked peacefully at us.  
“Wow. What a night. Better than movie night.”  
I sighed.  
“You did the right thing, Richard. Honesty is better than anything. And I guess your mother will appreciate it once she is over the initial shock.”  
Francis suggested to get a second bottle of champagne as we truly had something to celebrate, but I stopped him, not being certain that my mother would exactly share our view.  
After she came back from washing her face, the rest of the evening turned out much better than I had feared. It surely helped to have Sophie still here, and I was amazed at what an honest conversation we had. With my father present, it would have been impossible. Without his overpowering presence, my mother was much more open and interested, and she seemed to like the open-minded discussion with much younger voices than she was accustomed to. I had the feeling she really wanted to understand me and my world, even if she said she could never tell this to my father. I realized that I had my curiosity, the fascination to understand and immerse myself into other people’s life, from her side. Definitely not from my father. During the last year, I thought all ties had been cut, but I was amazed at her effort to bond with me and us. It culminated in her getting out her camera and announcing she wanted to have memories of this remarkable evening, and she took photos until the roll of film gave out: of me and my “girlfriend”, to have something to show to my father, of the three of us, piled at one end of the table with Sophie sitting graciously, but somewhat staged on my lap, and finally of my roommate and me. Who initially refused, of course, as he didn’t like to have his photo taken. But she snapped just in the moment when he looked at me to explain he didn’t want to and I said to him that this would be the first ever photo of the two of us together (she sent the photos with her Christmas card) – and this is the photo I have on my desk, right to this day. It’s one of my favourite ones of us. I love it, despite it’s poor quality. We look so young and lean and somehow unfinished, which is strange and somewhat incredible as it reminds me of the merciless passing of time. But we glow and look in each other’s eyes with such an affection that it still touches my heart.


End file.
